Hard Prejudice: A Hard-Boiled Crime Novel: (Dan Reno Private Detective Noir Mystery Series) (Dan Reno Novel Series Book 5)

by Dave Stanton

  “Call Darrian Bannon’s office,” I said to Cody. “Let’s see if he’s returned yet.”

  I steered into Pistol Pete’s and parked while he worked his mobile device. When it started ringing, he turned on the speaker.

  “Darrian Bannon law offices,” a woman answered.

  “Is Mr. Bannon in?” I said, speaking into Cody’s phone.

  “Not at this time. May I take a message?”

  “Yes. Do you know when to expect him?”

  “He’s traveling the remainder of the week. He should be in Monday. Who’s calling?”

  “My name is Charles Ulysses Farley. I was vice-president at a large corporation, and I just got fired. My boss is a bigot, and I think my termination was racially motivated. I’ve heard Mr. Bannon specializes in this type of case.”

  “Absolutely, sir,” said the woman. “How may Mr. Bannon reach you?”

  “Well, I’m in South Lake Tahoe now, with my family.”

  “Oh, really? Let me have your number. Mr. Bannon may be able to meet you there.”

  “You mean he’s up here?”

  “I can’t guarantee it, but he might be available. Your number, please?”

  I gave her a phony number and hung up. “Sounds like Bannon is still in town,” I said. “There’re only four or five places I think he’d stay. Let’s start here.”

  We got out of my truck and headed to Pistol Pete’s hotel entrance.

  “You’re still using that Chuck U. Farley bit, huh?” Cody said.

  “Gotta do something for kicks.”

  We went into the lobby, where a huge metal sculpture of a cowboy riding a rearing horse dominated the circular room. Pistol Pete’s, once run by the mafia, had been sold last year to a major casino conglomerate, after the previous owner and his top manager vanished. Since then, the hotel had become one of South Lake Tahoe’s most expensive and fashionable destinations.

  There was a short line at the registration desk. Various pieces of Old West memorabilia were mounted on the blue walls—saddles, six-shooters, cowboy hats, and the like.

  “Let me handle this,” Cody said when a clerk became free. She was a young Asian woman with silky black hair and skin so perfect she could have been mistaken for a porcelain doll.

  “How are you?” Cody said.

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “I’m glad to hear you’re glad to hear that,” she said with a giggle.

  Cody laughed in return, then said, “Could you do me a favor and call the room of Mr. Darrian Bannon?”

  “Of course.” She pecked at her keyboard and studied her screen. “Gee, I don’t see his name.”

  “Maybe he checked out yesterday.”

  She hit a few more keys and frowned. “I’m sorry, he’s not coming up.”

  “No worries, dear,” Cody said. “Have a nice day, okay?”

  We headed to the doors. “Let’s walk over to Caesars,” I said.

  “What’s the plan if we find the shyster?” Cody asked, once we were outside.

  “Feel him out. See what he has to say.”

  “Really? Since when did you become such an optimist?”

  “What have we got to lose?”

  “In case you forgot,” Cody said, “the guy’s a lawyer. The attorney-client privilege applies even after the case is done. Unless we give him a damn good reason, he ain’t gonna tell us shit.”

  “I know that,” I said. “Look, let’s try to be chummy with the dude. Hell, maybe buy him a drink or two. You never know what we might learn.”

  “The other option is get him alone, put him in a headlock, and threaten to snap his neck.”

  “Goddammit, Cody,” I began, but when I looked at his mug, he was smiling.

  “I’m just kidding, Dirt,” he said. “Seriously, I’m good here. Let’s do it your way. Chill out and have a drink.”

  I looked at my watch. “At least it’s noon.”

  • • •

  We crossed the street to Caesars, struck out, and had the same result at Harvey’s and the Embassy Suites in California. The last place on my list was Harrah’s. We waited for the light and hoofed it across the crosswalk at the state line.

  “Why don’t you call Grier and ask about Tim Cook?” Cody said as we walked the long stretch of sidewalk alongside the black glass facade of Harrah’s casino.

  “All right.” I dialed the number for South Lake PD and asked the receptionist if Grier was in. To my mild surprise, she transferred me to his desk.

  “Yes, what is it?” Grier answered, around a mouthful of food.

  “Hey, Marcus. You asked me to keep you posted on my progress.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I met with Tim Cook. What do you think of him?”

  “What do you mean, what do I think of him? Is this your idea of an update?”

  “He drives a junker, and his suit looks like a giveaway from a homeless shelter.”

  “So what?” he said.

  “Is he broke?”

  “Dan, his wife had terminal cancer and passed away about four months ago. Cook spent every dime he had caring for her after his insurance ran out. Yes, I’d say he’s broke, and probably in debt, too.”

  “You think he’s desperate enough to take a payoff to make the DNA disappear?”

  “Cook? I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I know the guy, and he’s handled his situation with dignity.”

  “Cook said everyone who might have had access to the key to the evidence locker will be given a polygraph.”

  “He told you that?” asked Grier.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Look, I feel bad for the guy, but…”

  “What?”

  “Make sure Cook gets hooked up too, huh?”

  “Thanks for the advice. Should I tell him it was your idea?”

  “I’ll talk to you later, Marcus.”

  “I can’t wait,” he said.

  We went into Harrah’s and through the casino to the hotel registration desk. Cody asked the attendant, a young Hispanic man, to dial Darrian Bannon’s room. He checked his computer, then looked up.

  “Whom should I say is calling?”

  “Timothy Leary.”

  We waited while the clerk held the phone to his ear, until he said, “I’m sorry, he’s not picking up.”

  “Thanks anyway.” I began walking back toward the casino floor.

  “You want to wander around?” Cody said.

  “Yeah. Maybe we’ll get lucky.” I’d seen Bannon’s picture on the Internet. While his hair and facial features were clearly those of a black man, his skin was the color of coffee diluted with too much cream. High yellow, people from the south used to call it. At some point, white blood had become comingled in Bannon’s gene pool. It may have been the result of a white slave owner having congress with a female slave. There was no law against a master raping his slaves, and the most attractive females were usually victimized. It was a common practice before the Civil War.

  The casino was picking up with the after-lunch crowd, and new card tables were opening. We walked by row after row of slots and scanned the tables, looking for a face matching Bannon’s. We checked the sports book, the coffee shop, and another set of tables and slots at the opposite end of the casino. The place was nowhere near capacity, but there were still hundreds of people milling about. After twenty minutes, I said, “I’m starving. Let’s get some chow.”

  “Let’s hit the cantina downstairs,” Cody said.

  In the middle of the casino, an escalator led down to an underground walkway that connected Harrah’s to Harvey’s, which was on the other side of Highway 50. We took the escalator, but instead of following the underpass, we went the opposite direction to a cavelike Mexican restaurant.

  The dining room was hidden behind a bar that serviced a dozen cocktail tables and a stage where live music played at night. The lighting was dim, the lamps tinted red. Half
the tables were taken by people eating appetizers and sucking on margaritas or beers.

  Sitting at a corner table was a couple, the man with his back to us. The woman had long, brown hair and milky white skin, and she wore a low-cut, aqua-green dress. A barbed wire tattoo circled her arm below her bare shoulder. She sat with her legs crossed, one high-heeled foot dangling under the table, and she was not wearing a bra—her nipples were pointy against the sheer material.

  Cody and I sat a few tables away. I went to the bar and asked for a glass of water. When I turned, I got a good look at the man. He was clean-shaven, and his eyes looked puffy beneath his gold-rimmed spectacles. He wore khaki pants and tennis shoes and a purple knit shirt. Five-foot-ten, a soft one-ninety. Forty years old. A plate of prawns sat on the table. The man drank from a cocktail glass—vodka or gin or maybe silver tequila. The woman lowered her lips to dual straws and took a long sip from a blue concoction in a hurricane glass.

  I came back to our table. Cody was reading the menu.

  “It’s Bannon,” I said.

  “That his wife?”

  “I don’t think he’s married.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  “Could be. Or she’s a pro.”

  Cody lowered the menu and shifted his eyes to the woman. “She doesn’t look like she’s done it for free for a long time.”

  I started to reply, but stopped as a waitress arrived.

  “Hi, beautiful,” Cody said. “I’d like a Bud draught, and I’d also like to buy a round for that cute couple over there.”

  “Okay. And for you, sir?” she asked me.

  “A diet Coke. And some fish tacos.”

  “Bring some nachos, too,” Cody said.

  We waited a minute for the waitress to deliver the drinks to Bannon’s table. When she pointed to us, Bannon turned and looked over. I smiled and waved. His eyes moved from me to Cody. After a moment he nodded and turned back to the woman. She cast a disinterested glance our way and shared a few hushed words with Bannon. Then she wiped her hands on a napkin, took a final sip off her drink, and stood and walked out of the lounge.

  Bannon turned again toward us. He made no gesture, and his face was void of expression. I got up and went to his table.

  “I’m sorry. Do I know you?” Bannon said.

  “No. Sorry if we created any issue for you and your lady, there.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Are you South Lake PD?”

  “Nope.”

  “Do we look like cops?” Cody said, walking over with his beer.

  Bannon looked from Cody to me. “Christ, you’re not journalists, are you?”

  “Wrong again.”

  “To what do I owe the pleasure, then?”

  “Actually, we’d like to have a drink with you,” Cody said. “If you’re okay with that.”

  “Have a seat if you like,” Bannon said. We’d been standing over him. I knew if we stood there long enough, he’d either stand or tell us to sit. I took his lady’s seat, and Cody pulled up a chair from another table.

  “So, what’s on your mind?” Bannon said, folding his hands in front of him.

  “We’d like to chat with you about your recent case.”

  Bannon pulled on his ear and pressed his lips together. “Sorry to disappoint you, gentlemen. That’s something I’m not at liberty to discuss.”

  “What a surprise,” I said, smiling. Cody waved his empty beer glass at the waitress.

  “It’s a matter of professional ethics. Anyway, it’s been nice meeting you,” Bannon said, looking at his watch. “But I do need to be going.”

  “Let me guess,” Cody said. “That babe is waiting for you in your room. What does a piece of tail like that run, about five hundred an hour?”

  The insult didn’t register on Bannon’s smooth face. “I wouldn’t know,” he said.

  “Mr. Bannon,” I said, “I’ve heard you claim to have taken Duante Tucker’s case pro bono. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sure you’re aware, the IRS would take a dim view if you were in fact paid under the table.”

  Bannon forced a smile, his pink gums high above his small teeth. “I’m really not sure why you’d say something like that. And I really don’t have the time to listen to your insinuations.”

  “Why did you take Duante Tucker’s case?” Cody asked.

  “It’s my way of giving back to the community.”

  Cody barked a laugh. “I’m sure greater society is thrilled Duante Tucker is back on the streets.”

  Bannon stood, but my chair was blocking his only exit route. “The witnesses were scared off, and someone stole the DNA evidence,” I said. “If not for that, you’d never have gotten him off.”

  “Those were external factors I had no control over. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  I made no effort to move. “Maybe you had no control over those factors, but I bet you know who was behind it. Am I right, Mr. Bannon?”

  Pinned between the wall and me, Bannon was trapped. He stood with his pants leg nearly touching my shoulder.

  “Absolutely not. Further, I resent this intrusion on my day. I’m leaving now. Please move.”

  “Sit down, counselor,” Cody said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Sit down and finish the drink I bought you.”

  “This is ridiculous. I’m calling nine-one-one.” He reached for the cell phone clipped to his belt.

  “No, you’re not.” Cody stood and glared down at Bannon. “I doubt the local cops think much of you. I also think you give up certain rights when you throw in with a shitbag like Duante Tucker.”

  Bannon’s complexion became paler, and he opened his mouth as if gulping air. “My client was entitled by law to fair representation,” he recited. “And that is all I have to say to you.”

  “Wrong,” Cody said. “You’ve got a lot more to say. But it’s no problem, old buddy. I’m sure we’ll talk again soon.” Cody winked and picked up Bannon’s untouched drink.

  I stood and moved my chair so the attorney could escape. “Enjoy your stay,” I said.

  Bannon didn’t reply and hurried out of the restaurant. Once he was gone, our waitress came to the table. “Is everything okay here?” she asked.

  “Right as rain,” Cody said.

  “He left without paying his bill.”

  “His name is Darrian Bannon, and he’s staying at Harrah’s,” I said. “Charge it to his room.”

  • • •

  It was midafternoon when we got back to my place. Cody changed into his camouflage print shorts and went out to the deck. When I came outside, he was sitting in a plastic lounge chair facing the sun, shirtless and wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap. His jumbo cooler was next to the lounge chair. He took a swig from a can of beer and set it on the lid. “Now, this is the life,” he said.

  I sat at the picnic bench and rubbed my jaw. “You pleased how our meeting with Bannon went?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “The only thing we accomplished was putting him on alert.”

  “I figured that would happen. But I thought it went great.” He finished his beer, crushed the can in his fist, and grabbed another from the cooler.

  “How’s that?”

  “Bannon’s shittin’ scared. The money trail might lead through him. One way or another, he knows something.”

  “Right, and since we leaned on him, he’ll be extra cautious.”

  “I hope he takes it one step further.” Cody hit off his new beer and belched. “You know how it works. Make ’em think you’re getting close, and the rats come out of their holes.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it.” I stared at Cody’s massive white frame. His chest looked like iron plates had been inserted under the skin, and his arms were shaped like cannons. He picked up a tube of sunscreen and smeared some on his nose. I stepped off the deck onto the lawn. “I’m gonna jog down the trail. Be back in a little while.”

  On the other s
ide of my back fence, a dirt path followed a stream through the meadow. I took off down the trail toward the mountains, the sun beating down on my neck, dry grass brushing my shins as my feet pounded the loose dirt. I went across a makeshift bridge over the stream, and soon I was in the woods.

  My mind wandered, like it always did when I ran, and I thought about my father. He had been a district attorney but left the job for private practice. He specialized in fraud cases, defending his clients against a variety of scams, some perpetuated by large corporations. He was relentless when he thought he was right, and he wouldn’t take a case unless he felt that way. As an attorney, he’d made plenty of friends and a fair number of enemies. Eventually one of his enemies, a recently paroled piece of white trash, caught up with the old man and ambushed him with a twelve-gauge outside his office. One shot, point blank.

  I had problems after that, angry, confused, my teenage years a series of brawls and disciplinary issues. I didn’t know how to deal with a world where a psychotic miscreant could rob a family of a loved one and then simply return to a prison that offered him a more comfortable life than he would otherwise have. Things got so bad that my mother sent me to a shrink, who made pointless comments and grew visibly uncomfortable at some of the things I said. I stopped going after two sessions. A school counselor thought sports might provide an outlet for my aggression, so I joined the high school football team. But it wasn’t until I tried out for wrestling that things changed for the better.

  Wrestling. One-on-one combat. Strength, speed, stamina, technique. Factor in guts, perseverance, and, as important as anything, the ability to endure pain. And if those attributes aren’t enough, then you’d better get plumb dog mad. Because sometimes you have to get mad to win. And I hated losing.

  A competitive wrestler’s exercise regimen is grueling. The workouts last for hours, and if you haven’t puked, you haven’t pushed yourself hard enough. And that means you’ll probably get your ass kicked in the ring.

  My workouts these days are candy-assed compared to what I did when I wrestled in college. Nowadays, I might hit the weights for an hour, then jog three miles. And, once a week, I hang out at Rex’s Gym in Nevada. Rex is an ex-karate champion, and a crew of cage fighters train at his place. I participate as a sparring partner, sometimes with pads, sometimes without. In return for the bruises and occasional cuts, I stay up on the latest in submission holds and striking techniques.